


Compulsions

by SleepySappho



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Aphrodisiacs, Authoritarian Colonialist Military Regime, Dubious Consent, Evil Eternians, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, Humiliation, If You Squint But Better Safe Than Sorry, Imperialism, Just A Touch Of Medical Kink, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Military Science Fiction, Smut, Space Facism, Trans Adora (She-Ra), Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27832120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepySappho/pseuds/SleepySappho
Summary: When Catra goes into heat while a prisoner of the Eternian Imperial Navy, fighter pilot Adora Elysian is ordered, despite her protests, to exploit this opportunity for the good of her empire.How could they have anticipated how badly the plan would backfire?
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 102
Kudos: 564
Collections: She_Ra





	1. Examinations

**Author's Note:**

> Well. This is quite a bit darker than I typically go, and I'm sure some of y'all are looking at those tags and feeling justifiably uneasy, but it's not _quite_ as dark as it might seem. I have no intention of portraying non consensual sex in this or probably any fic I write, ever, but the web of power and pressures put on both Catra and Adora by amoral antagonists specifically around sexual agency is complex enough that I think the dubcon tag is warranted. At the end of the day, this is a very self-indulgently horny fanfic, but that won't stop me from trying to deal honestly with the feelings of every character involved, but everyone's tolerance is going to be different.
> 
> Fundamentally this fic will deal with themes of manipulation and coercion, but my goal is to always have that come from forces outside Catra and Adora's relationship rather than them doing it to each other. Everyone's tolerance is going to be different, though, so please exercise caution and look after yourself, as always.

Nausea overwhelms Catra for the third time that day. The Eternian medical examiner pushes the biological waste bucket towards Catra with her foot at the sound of her retching, not bothering to look up from her clipboard. 

Catra's stomach twists, expelling what little still remains, mostly water and bile. 

"The symptoms began this morning?" The examiner asks once Catra is finished vomiting.

"Fuck you," Catra rasps weakly. They monitor her every movement, track everything that enters and exits her body, always taking samples and running tests, trying to dig under her skin and find something loose to pry at. She can't stop them from knowing, but she sure as hell isn't going to cooperate. 

The medical examiner hums in response, flipping over another sheet of plastipaper, the results of some test or another. "Patient exhibits usual levels of non-cooperation," she states for the benefit of what must be one of several recording devices monitoring the examination. "Notably decreased levels of energy, however. No indication of viral or bacterial infection." The buzzing sound of a heat printer draws her attention away from the clipboard as a new sheet of plastipaper is dispensed onto her desk, covered in charts and numbers Catra wouldn't be able to interpret even if she could make them out. 

The medical examiner adds it to the clipboard and takes a moment to look over the new data. "Urinalysis results confirm my initial hypothesis." The examiner looks at Catra for the first time since her initial perfunctory examination, impassive expression colored with a gleam of predatory fascination. Catra feels like she might vomit again. 

She readies herself for the diagnosis she knows is coming, known since she woke up with a familiar feverish itch under her skin this morning. 

_Not here. Not now._

"Authorize use of a low dose of antiemetics if nausea persists past the next 24 hours. Symptoms and hormonal profile are consistent with typical Felid estrus cycle. Expect initial symptoms to pass within the first several days of the cycle and significant behavioral changes to begin manifesting in approximately 36 to 48 hours. Behavioral changes may prove beneficial to long term interrogation program, I will prepare a full report for the Colonel by the end of the day."

Catra pulls her legs up into the cold metal chair, wrapping her arms around them. Eternian _bastards._

The medical examiner looks her in the eye for the first time that day, sickly sweet smile splayed across her face. "Don't worry, Catra, we intend to make the following weeks as comfortable for you as possible." 

Catra closes her eyes and wills herself to be somewhere, anywhere else.

* * *

Wing Captain Adora Elysian clambers out of the cockpit of her Estoc Interceptor, clipping herself onto the steel gantry as it begins to pull her back from the hard vacuum of the landing deck into the primary airlock. She lets her fingers brush against the fighter's synthetic hull as she pulls away, counting the Alliance sigils standing out in a neat row against the craft's brilliant white finish. Twenty-six in total. There had been no opportunity to add to that number today, unfortunately, since her wing had been saddled with a milk run, escorting a shipment of munitions to the _Celestial Grace_ and back. 

The airlock doors seal in front of her, and there's a brief lurch as the gravity normalizes with the habitable sections of the ship, nothing compared to the forces Adora is used to from maneuvering in her interceptor, however. She hears the low, constant beeping of the alert system, indicating there's enough atmosphere in the airlock now to carry sound, and she removes her helmet, trading the stale recycled air of her flight suit for the stale, recycled air of the Eternian Imperial Voidship _High Empress Preserver_. 

She tucks the helmet under her arm and trudges back to her locker, removing her thick, insulated gloves to carefully peel off the sheet of plastipaper adhered to the front of it. The familiar form of marching orders jumps out at her, and she scans past the usual formalities of _without hesitation or delay_ and _by the eternal authority of her Imperial Majesty_ to the relevant section: _Present immediately at Medical Station 7 [HD3/RF12] for examination._

She considers whether "immediately" in this situation means before or after her post-flight shower, and decides whoever is examining her will thank her for interpreting it as _after,_ so she finishes stripping off her flight suit and heads to the cramped pilot's showers. 

Idly, Adora wonders what could require an off-schedule medical exam. Her main vitals are constantly monitored by implant, but that same information had been displayed on her flight console for the entire mission, and nothing had been at all irregular. Besides, the orders would have been printed while she was away, far out of communication range with the carrier's medical database. The logical conclusion is that they're testing for something asymptomatic which… isn't likely to be anything good.

Cramped as they may be, Adora knows the running water showers are a significant luxury on an Imperial ship, one usually reserved for the higher ranks of officers. Certainly an officer of her tier in the carrier's compliment of marines or the engineering section would not be afforded the privilege, but the pilots who fly the interceptors and bombers of the Imperial Navy are treated with a degree of respect beyond peers of their rank elsewhere, one that Adora often guiltily suspects is largely undeserved. Still, the twinkling of guilt isn't enough to keep her from enjoying the warm water streaming down her skin, washing ten hours worth of sweat and grime down into the drains to be cleaned and recycled into the massive industrial ecosystem feeding the basic biological needs of the nearly ten thousand souls aboard the _Preserver._

Adora keeps her shower brief, conscious of her duty to report for examination afterwards. On the way out of the showers she nearly collides with Commander Mara Sheridan, and she instinctively snaps into a rigid salute, left hand fumbling to keep her towel in place. 

Mara snorts with laughter, waving the display aside. "At ease, Captain," she grins, and Adora relaxes, securing her towel with both hands. Modesty is an impractical trait to have in the Navy, but Adora has her reasons for maintaining hers as best as she can.

"Thank you, sir," Adora nods, stopping herself from awkwardly dashing back to her locker to change. "Do you know anything about my marching orders?" She asks. 

Mara shrugs. "They've been grabbing officers from all over, having them head down to medical for tests. I've been assured that there's no pathogen onboard and not to worry about it, but…" the commander trails off, and Adora nods. That is exactly what she'd expect to hear if there _was_ something to worry about. 

"Right," she says, stepping out of the Commander's path. "Thank you, sir." 

"Good luck, Captain," Mara responds, leaving Adora alone to wonder what exactly is waiting for her down in Medical Station 7.

* * *

What's waiting for her is a stripped down examination room and a medical officer Adora doesn't recognize, an imposing woman with short, platinum hair, dressed in the standard white and red uniform of the Naval Medical Corps, with the insignia of a Major pinned at the corner of the asymmetrical lapel. She doesn't bother to look Adora's way as she gestures for her to sit down on the examination table, and Adora promptly obeys. 

Adora waits in silence for several minutes before the examiner finally turns to look at her, appraising her with a momentary glance that makes Adora feel impossibly small despite being the taller of the two women. She shifts slightly, the layer of protective paper on the exam table crinkling under her. She can't help but feel she has been found wanting in some respect.

The examiner pulls on a pair of disposable gloves with practiced efficiency, the elastic material snapping against her wrists and nearly making Adora jump in the oppressive silence. Finally, the examiner speaks. 

"Adora Elysian, Wing Captain, lead pilot of Zenith Wing, age twenty-two," she begins, holding Adora's gaze as easily if she was grasping her chin. "No major surgical history, no ongoing treatments other than a synthetic hormonal profile, and an Eternian Blood Quotient of .21, is that all correct?" 

Adora bristles at the mention of her heritage. That was, at least ostensibly, a sealed part of her personal records. Apparently that prohibition does not apply to medical officers. "Yes," Adora confirms, brusquely. 

The medical officer gives Adora a withering stare, and she struggles not to slouch under the weight of disapproval. " _Sir,_ " she quickly appends. "Yes, _sir,_ that's all correct." She's unused to being outranked by a medical officer. 

The woman stares for a moment longer before finally turning away, letting Adora release the breath she's been holding. She turns to a nearby cart and picks up an aerosol mask attached to a short length of plastic tubing, giving it to Adora to hold. Adora stares blankly at the mask, turning it over in her hands. She's seen these used on injured soldiers who need assistance breathing, or even to administer some forms of anesthetic, and she doesn't know why it would be used on her. 

"Put it on," the Major snaps, and Adora scurries to comply, placing the mask over her mouth and nose. She inhales lightly, but it seems like entirely normal air, and she relaxes a bit. The medical officer watches to make sure the mask is held securely, then presses a button on the cart and Adora hears the _hiss_ of a valve opening. She expects some kind of harsh, antiseptic, smell, but what greets her instead is something warm and rich, a little bit like memories of petrichor on her home colony, a little bit like the must of real, plant-based paper in the old books she'd briefly handled in university, and mostly something _else,_ a scent she has no point of comparison for but which she finds herself breathing in deeply, eyes closing as she attempts to drink in the details of the unfamiliar sensation. 

She exhales with a small noise of satisfaction, eyes snapping open as she remembers she is _not_ alone, face hot with shame and embarrassment at her conduct. The medical officer is watching her with pointed interest. 

The valve closes again, and the scent rapidly dissipates, leaving only a faint tinge in the cool, artificial air of the respirator. Adora begins to lower the mask from her face, catching herself and glancing up at the Major for approval, who gives her a quick nod. She lets her hand fall away with the mask held loosely in it, thinking maybe the air of the ship's atmosphere will help clear her head. 

"Very good," the examiner says, reaching for a heatpen and a clipboard. "Now, Captain Elysian, it is highly important that you be as direct and honest with your answers as possible. That is an order, do you understand?" 

Adora nods, still feeling strange. The burning sensation in her face hasn't gone away, but seemingly dispersed throughout the rest of her body, warming her against the usually too-cool temperature of the carrier's climate controlled atmosphere. The Major takes a seat on her desk, facing Adora, eyes seemingly trying to burrow through her skin, as if by staring hard enough she can see the inner workings of Adora's body, the operation of her veins and muscles. 

"How are you feeling?" There is nothing gentle about the question, no trace of genuine concern for her wellbeing. Adora's used to poor bedside manner, it's a fact of life in the military, but this woman makes her feel like a dissection. 

"Strange," Adora answers, "what _was_ that?"

The Major ignores the question. "Elaborate on 'strange'."

Adora squirms under that penetrating gaze. She isn't sure how to answer the question. She feels warm. Hot, really, almost feverish. Every one of her senses is in overdrive, which is familiar enough, but the adrenal terror that normally accompanies the state is missing. The fabric of her uniform feels uncomfortably abrasive on her skin, like she's wearing velcro, and she's overly conscious of her own pulse, which is faster than normal. 

The strangest part is that it's _good._ Or at least, not unpleasant. The heat and excitement and overstimulation combine in a sort of dizzying haze that she finds herself enjoying, a rush of adrenaline like she gets from pulling off a difficult maneuver. Her knee bounces up and down uncontrollably and her fingers flex against the edge of the examination table, itching to grab ahold of— _something._ The Major clears her throat, waiting for an answer.

"I, uh…" Adora kicks herself for her lack of eloquence in the presence of a superior officer, but her thoughts feel scattered, racing ahead of each other too quickly to connect into something meaningful. "I feel warmer. I seem to be more sensitive, and, I'm struggling to focus on answering this question," she states honestly. "I feel… like I'm supposed to be _doing_ something?"

She focuses her gaze back on the medical officer, who is now looking at her with something approaching approval, or at least interest. Adora feels another wave of heat burn through her. 

"Interesting," the Major says simply, making notes on her clipboard. "What would that something be? Is there anything in particular you want to be doing right now?"

Adora opens her mouth to answer, ready to say that she wants to be back in the cockpit of her interceptor, but stops, because _that_ _isn't quite true, is it?_ With a combination of dread and utter humiliation, Adora recognizes the sensation coursing through her, infrequently indulged but still familiar.

_Arousal._

Of course now that she knows it, the signs are obvious. The building heat in the pit of her stomach, the burning in her face that almost certainly corresponds to a highly visible flush, her hammering pulse and— _Empress Ascendant,_ she's already half hard in her uniform trousers. She locks her gaze on the floor, counting to ten, focusing on the cold, clinical atmosphere, the medical officer's contempt, anything to chase away the unwelcome _need_ pounding through her body.

Gloved fingers grasp her chin, tilting her head back up to meet the Major's gaze. "Look at me when you answer my questions, Captain." 

Adora's head swims, her mouth is dry as she tries to remember the last question the officer asked, tries to find some scrap of _discipline_ to bring her traitorous body back under control. 

The Major sighs and releases her grip on Adora's face. "Let me try this, instead: are you currently sexually aroused?" 

Hearing that question from a superior officer, and one with such a clear lack of any sympathy for her situation, should have chilled Adora to her core. Instead, it only seems to intensify her predicament. She nods, meekly. 

The Major makes another note on her clipboard.

"Excellent," she says, and Adora nearly swoons onto the floor. _What is happening?_

"One more question," the Major asks, taking in the full, pathetic scope of Adora's reactions. "The scent, from the aerosol mask. Do you want more?" 

It sounds more like an accusation than an offer.

"Yes," Adora whispers, the shame sickening her almost as much as it seems to excite her. 

The Major smiles. " _Very_ good." 


	2. Time Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If you saw me edit chapter one of this fic to change Adora's last name,,, no you didn't)
> 
> Well! Here's some more smut! And, because this fic is a nightmare rollercoaster, a fresh batch of content warnings to go with it! 
> 
> There isn't much crossover with the smutty bits, but this chapter contains a trans a character reflecting on the changing (and increasingly hostile) attitudes of her society towards trans people. Additionally, there is an imprisoned character discussing their fears of psychological torture and manipulation, and an oblique reference to the possibility of sexual assualt, although that is not and will not actually be depicted in this fic.
> 
> Also there's an orgy. 
> 
> What the fuck am I doing with this fic

Adora stumbles back to her quarters in a daze, clutching a sheet of plastipaper in her hands. It was difficult to focus enough to read the words, and even harder to absorb their implications. _Indefinite medical leave, effective immediately._ The notion of her being sick is upsettingly plausible, given her current condition. She doesn't want to know what would happen if she tried to fly an interceptor like this. 

She opens the door to her quarters to find the three other wing captains she bunks with absent, their cots and desks removed. She should be grateful for the extra space, but at the moment she finds the isolation from her fellow pilots disconcerting. 

_What the hell is going on?_

Mara had said they were pulling officers from all over the carrier for testing. Did they all go through _that?_ It sounds like a terrible idea in terms of maintaining military discipline, hell, even Adora isn't sure she'd say no to some illicit fraternization right now.

Speaking of… 

Despite the disquieting circumstances surrounding it, there's no reason Adora shouldn't take the rare opportunity to enjoy this level of privacy. She walks towards her cot, letting her orders slip from her fingers onto the metal floor. 

So. How does she do this, again? For years now, masturbation has been a hurried, utilitarian endeavor during showers or quietly in the dead of night, her bunkmates feigning ignorance and Adora extending the same courtesy to them. Officer fraternization certainly wasn't unheard of, and some of the higher ranking officers were even permitted to serve on the same crew with their spouses, quartering together under the official sanction of the Navy. Adora had never pursued any such relationship, though she had received a handful of polite offers in her career. It was impossible to keep the fact of her anatomy a secret, but she always thought it best to make sure everyone involved could pretend not to be aware of it. There was no legal prohibition, civilian or military, against transition in the Empire, but it was certainly considered less… decent than when she had undergone endocrine reconstruction as a teenager. Lots of things were different, now. The longer the war dragged on, the more many in the Empire sought to define themselves in opposition to their enemies. The worlds of the Alliance had a general disregard for strict definitions of gender, so the Empire's norms grew more rigid. The Alliance had a reputation for libertine sexuality, so the Empire criminalized adultery in Adora's second year of university. 

Not that the law was _followed,_ or even commonly enforced, but its existence changed the norms, the unspoken rules of what was acceptable to discuss, to be, to think about. Adora is not ashamed of who she is, of the long road she traveled to get there. But she finds it easier not to draw attention to herself, in case someone wielding more power than her thinks she ought to be. 

She's not sure that caution could keep her from declining such an offer now, however, not with the way her body is crawling with desire, with the need for touch and sensation, the soft gravity of a warm body next to hers. Adora leaves her uniform in a crumpled grey and white heap on the floor and collapses into her cot, one hand rucking up her undershirt to soothe an almost painfully hard nipple, the other gently cupping between her legs. _Fuck,_ any amount of pressure there has her bucking her hips upward, seeking friction. She feels feral, animalistic, like all she needs is to find someone warm and willing to rut into. She's _never_ been like this, not in her fumbled adolescent explorations or her vague late night fantasies. She is usually passive, accepting, _begging_ for touch, for praise, for pleasure, laying back and enjoying the graceful glide of another's fingers on her. If she's on top, it's at the behest of her partner, doing her best to satisfy them. She's never had much of an interest in penetration or hell, a _capacity,_ she hasn't been this hard since her endocrine reconstruction, but right now it's all she wants, and she wants it _desperately._

Images flit through her mind, the definition of Mara's collarbones as they passed in the showers, the cold-eyed stare of the medical examiner, fragments of memories she hadn't even known she was holding onto until this moment.

None of them are what she _needs,_ though, and they all slip through her fingers when she tries to grab hold of them, melting back into an indistinct milieu of arousal and sensation. And underneath it all, the memory of that _scent._ Whatever was in that aerosol mask, whatever gas or drug or perfume they exposed her to, she can't let go of it. She had answered the Major honestly when she said she wanted more. She wants so much more, in higher concentrations, she wants to bury her face in that scent, breathe in with her mouth and taste it thick and heavy on her tongue, she wants that dark, damp smell to fill her up and drive out every thought other than pure desire. 

When Adora comes, her whole body spasming in time with the pulses of her orgasm, it's to the thought of that scent, and the possibility of _more._

* * *

On the third day, Catra wakes up immersed in the scent of her own heat. The first stage of cramping and nausea is over, and the stirrings of the second stage must have crept up on her overnight. She curls into the sparse bedding of her prison cot, trying to grab ahold of the lingering scraps of the warm, sweet dreams her heat had brought with it. If she closes her eyes and buries her face in the coarse blanket, she can almost pretend she isn't captured, alone, locked away in the depths of an Eternian carrier travelling through stars-know-where in the depths of space. 

Of course, "almost" is only good for Salinean rhyming songs and tactical explosives. It won't fix a busted navigation system and it won't win a war. It certainly won't help her here. 

Catra groans into the pillow and slides a hand down between her legs, giving her something other than the cot to grind against. She might as well try and work out as much of her need as possible before her captors put their new interrogation strategy into effect. It doesn't take an intelligence officer of Catra's caliber to figure out what they're going to do. The biological impulse of a Felid heat isn't just about fucking until you drop, about _breeding_ as some like to crassly put it. It's a _mating_ instinct, an evolutionary adaptation derived from the fact that Felid kittens, helpless as they are in their early months of life, are far more likely to survive and have kittens of their own with two or more dedicated parents to look after them. Right now, Catra's body isn't just demanding she find someone to get her pregnant as soon as possible, although it _is_ demanding that, but driving her to seek intimacy, reliability, the safety and comfort of someone careful and strong who can help her protect her blessedly hypothetical offspring. She knows all too well that being not just fucked but _looked after_ during her heat produces a giddy rush of hormones that feel virtually indistinguishable from trust and safety and even love. She still feels badly about how things went with Scorpia, even if she is ostensibly forgiven a hundred times over for it, but knows even the bitter taste of that memory doesn't keep her safe from the same biological imperative. 

If the Eternians are smart, and the fact that one of the Alliance's foremost operatives is currently locked away in an anonymous holding cell is substantial evidence that they _are,_ they'll take advantage of that. Find someone Catra's instincts can't resist, have them go through all the motions whether she likes it or not. It doesn't need to be particularly sweet or romantic, just enough to fuck with her head and get the job done. Catra's heard more stories than she would like about young Felids who were taken advantage of during their heats, developing psychological dependencies on their abusers that can take years to overcome. It doesn't matter if that connection is tangled up in hatred, anger, and disgust, it will still be _there,_ still be another lever the damn Eternians can use to try and pry her open, make her talk. 

No one resists interrogation forever. Not even Catra. When someone has complete control over your reality, everything you see and hear, everyone you talk to, every piece or comfort and discomfort, they can chip away at the foundations of your sense of self, break you down into pieces and then reach a hand out to build you back up. There's no shame in taking that hand. Everyone does, sooner or later. Resisting interrogation isn't about heroism or moral purity: it's about buying _time._ Enough time to wait for an escape or, failing that, for any intelligence you might have to be so hopelessly out of date that it proves useless. Before this week and her meeting with the medical examiner, Catra was confident she could manage that time. Now?

If she's lucky, the bizarre Eternian sense of sexual morality will prevent them from sending a woman. She likes her chances far better if they make that mistake. But she doesn't think they will. Catra's seen enough of Imperial culture to know that their precious moralizing is more of a smokescreen than anything else; an arbitrary set of rules that can be ignored at the state's convenience and deployed ferociously against their enemies. Hell, this whole tactic would be an unambiguous violation of stellar laws on the treatment of prisoners of war, laws that Eternian diplomats drafted and signed less than forty years ago. That fact doesn't give Catra any confidence, however. This has been a very, very long war, and even before she was captured she was already hearing about the deterraforming projects on Krytis. 

All she can really do now is try to blow off as much steam as possible while she's still allowed to do it alone. Her captors have neglected to helpfully provide her with any tools to do the job other than her own fingers, but resourcefulness is the watchword of an intelligence officer, and Catra knows how to make do. 

What she wouldn't give to have Scorpia here to take care of this right now, emotional landmines be damned. Hell, she'd even settle for Sparkles at this point, though if she ever gets out of here she is _never_ going to mention that fact. 

Ideally, she'd work her way through her heat with as many different partners as possible, doing her best to keep herself from getting clingy with any one of them. That's how she spent her last heat, taking a trip to Plumeria at Scorpia's recommendation. 

She chases down the memory of those weeks, the sweet (and, she later learned, psychoactive) scent of Plumerian Honeysuckle in her nostrils, the sensation of flesh and fur pressing against her from all sides, tangled up in a mass of ecstatic bodies all out in the open, cushioned by the thick grass and fields of flowers beneath them. Only about a third of the species on Etheria are compatible with Felid pheromones, but to that third Catra in heat might as well have been a literal fucking goddess, and she had found no shortage of women willing to offer themselves in supplication. 

As she grinds down against her own palm, she can almost see them now, her hands grabbing onto that Taurel women's horns and pulling her mouth closer, harder against her. That shy Cervidian girl, sucking on her fingers with desperation written all over her face grinding against Catra's thigh like it was the best thing she'd ever felt in her life. Dozens of different faces, different bodies, all coming together with the singular purpose of satisfying her, _worshipping_ her, pleading for anything and everything Catra was willing to give them. And Catra had been feeling _generous,_ fueled by a fire burning brighter and hotter than it ever had before, barely stopping to rest and rehydrate before diving in again to chase orgasm after orgasm with another partner. 

She has to admit, Scorpia's new girlfriend had known how to throw one hell of a party. 

She'd known some of the observers there were more than just voyeurs and curious passerbys, watching to make certain nothing unsafe happened to any participant. It was that final reassurance that had let Catra truly let go, lose herself to the heat and the pleasure even more thoroughly than she had with Scorpia. She presses her hips down harder, indulging in the vague memory of a woman whose face and name she does not know pushing into her with a silicone cock, fucking her fast and gloriously hard, proving with every moan that even if Catra didn't know her name she sure as hell knew _Catra's._

She's making noises now, and spares a fraction of a thought for the fact that her yowls are certainly being recorded, and permits herself a brief, vindictive thrill at the thought of some poor intelligence officer having to listen to all of it and try to maintain their composure. The thoughts come faster, sharper along with her breath, memories not touch and taste and smell driving her higher and higher, her hips grinding furiously against her palm as she groans wildly, sounding like every bit the feral creature that, for just a moment, she is allowed to be. 

She comes screaming, not bothering to ask permission to use a shower from her wardens, but curling back up in her own mess of sweat and slick and scent to try and sleep some more. Any moment of precious unconsciousness that might carry her back to Plumeria, to Etheria, to absolutely anywhere that wasn't _here,_ with the eyes and ears of the Eternian Navy pressing down on her, her body filling up with the mounting dread of what they plan to do.


	3. The Burdens of Command

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another episode of Whatever This Is, starring Sad Horny Cat and Sad Horny Space Murderer. This chapter is probably as dark as it's gonna get for a while, since the real horny shit is coming up next, but we've still got some content warnings to mind here.
> 
> In this chapter we've got a man being a real creep, a character being threatened and coerced, Eternians being racist fascists, and a character undergoing surgery without prior consent, as well as a short paragraph describing a surgery in progress. 
> 
> Also Glimmer and Catra don't have any romantic relationship or history in this au, I just view them as friends who have a sort of "we were never single at the same time but... What if?" Vibe that remains unspoken, in case you were wondering. 
> 
> Also in case you were wondering, which I'm sure you weren't, I posted an explanation of Adora's direct chain of command over on [my twitter](https://twitter.com/SleepySaph/status/1335390584266080259?s=19), as well as some reference images and brief explanation about the [uniforms](https://twitter.com/SleepySaph/status/1336138354492985344?s=19). 
> 
> Enjoy the angst, folks, because next chapter were getting on an Express Train To Horny Town and never looking back.

Adora carefully buttons the lapel of her jacket, the bright brass buttons standing out absurdly in the dull grey of her quarters. The dress uniform is a ridiculous choice for her situation, but she finds the ritual of donning it steadies her nerves, as if the starched grey fabric provides some kind of protection from the indignity of the task at hand.

_The man from the Special Intelligence Services seems to take pleasure in her discomfort, thin smile remaining fixed on his face as Adora sputters, vacillating between humiliation and fury. In the corner, Commander Sheridan slouches against the wall, drilling a cold, hard stare into the back of the Colonel's head._

They made sure to have the new jacket ready in her quarters by the time she returned from her meeting with the Colonel, the insignia of her new rank stitched into the lapel with glinting, golden thread. 

_By the grace and authority of her Imperial Majesty, the Empress Reigning, and in recognition of meritorious service to the Admiralty, the people of Eternia, and the Abiding Throne, Adora Elysian, Citizen of the Empire and Elect of the Blood, is hereby granted the rank of Lieutenant Commander in the Imperial Navy._

Never before has a promotion made her feel so viscerally sick.

_"Commander Sheridan," the Colonel says, voice slick with the smug amusement of victory, "would you care to do the honors?"_

_Mara's fingers do not shake with rage as she removes the chevroned Wing Captain pin from Adora's jacket and replaces it with the diagonal bars of a Lieutenant Commander. Her movements are precise, efficient, completing the hateful task as quickly as possible. Adora thinks she sees her Commander wipe her fingers clean on her trousers after, as if the dishonor of the whole affair might have dirtied them, left her fingertips stained with filth like she'd gone digging in the machinery of an interceptor. The casual disgust makes Adora's face burn with an additional degree of humiliation, but she cannot blame Mara for it, not really._

Adora studies herself in the small mirror, hoping in vain that the wear of her sleepless night somehow will not show beneath her eyes. She attempts to impose some kind of order on her short, blonde hair, reaching for her small supply of styling gel. As she works the product into her hair, attempting to slick it back into regimented neatness, she has the absurd thought that this is almost like preparing for a date. She is not sure whether that makes her want to laugh or be sick.

_"You can't do this," Adora protests, hands clutching the side of her chair, "I am an officer of Her Imperial Majesty's Navy, a citizen of the Empire, and—"_

_"And an Elect of the Blood?" The Colonel finishes sharply. "You would have to be, after all, to hold an officer's rank, to fly in the Pilot's Corps."_

_The unspoken threat slides down Adora's spine, frozen terror prickling through her skin. She does not respond, hoping somehow that this is an idle comment, that he does not know—_

_"Did you ever stop to think who arranged to have your records altered, Elysian? Who might have the authority, the outlook to make sure a talented young woman could sidestep the law and find her way into the cockpit of an Interceptor? Did you think," the Colonel snaps, like he is lecturing a disobedient child, "that it would simply be forgotten?"_

_Adora feels tears prickling at the corner of her eyes, and molton, hideous anger at herself. She will not show weakness in front of this man. She will_ not _cry._

_Colonel Anacreon's gaze lingers on her face just long enough to make it clear he has noticed the pathetic display. He leans forward, palms flat on the desk, eye gleaming like a predator delivering a killing blow. "To make it explicit for you, Lieutenant Commander, unless you fancy going before an Imperial Tribunal for Blood Fraud, your ass belongs to the Special Intelligence Service." He leers openly, eyes sliding up and down her body, like an oily hand leaving trails on Adora's skin. "And the rest of you, as well."_

Adora retrieves the briefing folder from the tangled sheets of her cot, flipping through it as if it will somehow contain some information she missed while reading and rereading it throughout the night. She settles for perhaps the hundredth time on the prisoner's photograph, staring into her eyes. 

_A Felid woman stares up at her from the page with striking heterochromatic eyes. The picture was clearly taken covertly, probably at a distance with a telescopic lens. The woman is lounging in a chair at an outdoor cafe on some colony world Adora doesn't recognize, smiling wildly, captured midgesture as she says something to her conversation partner. Her eyes aren't on that unknown figure with their back to the camera, though, nor do they match the casually gleeful expression on her face. They are staring past the table's other occupant, cold and accusatory, directly down the lens of the camera._

_Adora's gaze slides to the facing page to the same woman, long dark hair sheared short and neat in the military fashion, stylish jacket and off-the-shoulder cape replaced with the polymer fabric of a prison jumpsuit. She looks tired, half-healed lacerations poking out from the collar of her new uniform, some patches of fur shaved to bare skin where stitches had to be applied. But her eyes are the same, still holding that cold fury, that defiant stare that makes Adora's stomach twist with inexplicable guilt._

_"I don't understand," Adora says, raising her eyes to meet Anacreon's oily gaze, "what I have to do with this."_

_The Colonel's face twists into a repulsive grin. "How much," he asks, "do you know about Felid biology?"_

She lets the folder slip out of her fingers and abandons it on her cot, squares her shoulders and exits her quarters. She begins the long walk to the cell in the bowels of the carrier, silently grateful that the route takes her away from the Pilots Corps section of the ship, that she will not have to bear the curious stares of her comrades in arms as she trudges towards her destruction. 

_"Why me?" Adora asks, her gaze fixed firmly on the steel rivets in the floor. "I'm a pilot, not a-"_

_The words catch in her throat. How does she even begin to describe what it is they want her to do? How does she even finish that sentence? Not an intelligence officer? A nurse?_

_A whore?_

_"Major Riebarch's report listed you as one of the only soldiers on board with a biological response to Felid pheromones. Likely a consequence of your mongrel heritage. The other candidates were deemed unsuitable for… various reasons." Anacreon leans in across the desk, his breath cool and antiseptic. "Depriving a Felid of sexual partnership during their heat could inflict severe psychological distress and even physical harm. It is very likely that under the Iden Conventions it would constitute torture." He punctuates his point, jabbing a finger down on the synthwood table. "We have a legal, and I'm sure you will agree ethical, obligation to prevent that from happening." He leans back in his chair, giving Adora back a sliver of breathing room. "I understand this assignment is unconventional, even difficult, but it is an assignment from a superior officer, and I expect an officer of your caliber to adapt to the situation." That slick, hideous smile bleeds back into his face. "Try to approach this with an open mind, Lieutenant Commander. Who knows? You may even enjoy yourself."_

Adora passes between a pair of heavily armed soldiers guarding the entrance to the cordoned off section of Habitable Deck 3 where Colonel Anacreon has established his petty kingdom. Not marines, or the Navy's own military police, but Enlisted Special Operatives, outside of the command structure Adora operates within and wearing the void-black uniforms of the Intelligence Service. 

She finds her destination easily, a room with an imposing reinforced steel door. Inside is a small entryway, a cramped alcove tucked away to one side where a Lieutenant sits in front of an array of screens showing half a dozen angles of the cell. The young officer shoots Adora a sympathetic glance, and her face burns knowing that they, too, must know exactly what she is here for. 

"Can– can you at least turn off the cameras?" She asks, voice quiet and raw with the promise of renewed tears. 

The Lieutenant regards her for a long moment, then nods, typing a few short commands into their console. The screens blink off one by one, and Adora lets out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. 

"Thank you, Lieutenant," she says, attempting to recover a scrap of her dignity as a superior officer. She stares down the second reinforced door, the final barrier between her and the moment she has been dreading. 

_"Oh, and Lieutenant Commander?" Anacreon calls in a sing-song voice as Adora is about to leave the room. She freezes in the doorframe, refusing to turn around and face the Colonel again, unless ordered._

_She does not need to see his face to know the expression of sickening satisfaction on it when he says "Our intake examination showed the prisoner has received some extremely sophisticated contraceptive implants. So, please, don't be afraid to do what comes naturally… so to speak."_

_She hears Mara make a noise of disgust, and Adora does not turn around, refusing to let Anacreon see her eyes watering._

_"Yes, sir," she says, and marches out of the room._

Adora almost jumps at the heavy _thunk_ of the mechanical lock disengaging. She closes her eyes, swallows the bile in her throat, and reaches for the handle. 

She is an officer in the service of Her Imperial Majesty, the Empress Reigning. She is a Captain- no, a _Lieutenant Commander_ of the Pilots Corps. She has flown wing to wing with some of the finest soldiers in the whole of the Eternian Navy, _led_ them into battle against the Empress's enemies. She is the tip of the sharpened spear that will strike a killing blow to the Alliance. She led the wing that destroyed the _Brightmoon._ It does not matter what damage it may do to her personal dignity, or the character of the officer who gave her this assignment. 

She has her orders, and she will complete them to the best of her ability.

Lieutenant Commander Adora Elysian opens the door.

* * *

  
  


_"Are you sure we can't send anyone else?"_

_Catra's flicks an ear, a gesture that Glimmer unfortunately cannot tell means annoyance. She is tired of having this conversation._

_"Yes, I'm sure," she says, stalking down the cavernous halls of Glimmer's ancestral palace to her next meeting, forcing the shorter woman to jog slightly to keep up._

Catra blinks thickly, trying to focus through the anaesthetic haze. She's strapped down to a medical gurney, being trundled along the familiar stretch of hallway between her cell and the medical examiner's office. 

_"I know for a fact you have field operatives on standby, there's got to be at least one you can trust with this. You can't keep doing everything yourself, anymore, you need to learn to delegate."_

_Catra snorts. "That's rich, coming from you, Sparkles. And for the record, I'm great at delegating, that's not what this is about." Catra stops mid stride, watching Glimmer skid to a halt and turn around to face her. "The contacts on Vellin are ones I cultivated personally. If you want to convince someone to risk their life trying to blow up a shipyard, you need to send a face they trust, okay? If anyone else could do the job, I'd have sent them weeks ago." She resumes walking, ignoring Glimmer's protests._

Her vision swims in out of focus and she scrabbles for every moment of lucidity she can get her hands on. It's difficult, the impulse to give in to the heaviness in her limbs and close her eyes almost overwhelming. The gurney comes to a shuddering halt in a makeshift operating theater, surrounded by thin plastic curtains. The unmistakable gaze of the medical examiner stares down at her from above a surgical mask. 

_"I just don't think it's worth the risk," Glimmer says, catching up to Catra and stepping in front of her._

_Catra sighs. "Look, Sparkles, you were just talking about trusting your subordinates? Well I'm asking you to trust me that this is the right call. Okay?"_

_Glimmer pouts._

_"Okay, Sparkles?"_

_"Fine," she says, crossing her arms with a huff that reminds Catra just how young the Grand Admiral of the Alliance is, and how many of her 22 years had been spent living the soft, coddled existence of royalty. She's going to need to learn some hard lessons if they're going to win this war, even more than she has already._

_They all will._

Catra tries to muster the energy and muscular control to ask what it is they're doing to her, but it comes out as a nonlinguistic slur of noises. Still, it draws the examiner's attention, her arched eyebrows raised in mild surprise. 

"Oh, you're still awake? Well, no matter, this dose should keep you from feeling any pain during the procedure, regardless." Catra tries to protest as the examiner straps a wrist down to the gurney, shaving and disinfecting a small rectangle on her inner arm, but the words don't come. 

_"Listen, before you go," Glimmer says, "I need you to think of someone new to head up Intelligence."_

_Catra raises an eyebrow skeptically. "Finally getting rid of me, Sparkles?"_

_"You wish," Glimmer grins back. "I'm making you a Vice Admiral, in charge of Intelligence and Logistics."_

_Catra doesn't ask why Glimmer is promoting a 24-year-old Intelligence Officer to one of the highest ranks in the Navy. She knows everyone more qualified died on the_ Brightmoon _along with Angella._

_"I'll get you a list before I leave."_

Catra pushes through the narcotic fog, marshalls strength in her lips and tongue to form words. After several moments of exhausting focus, she manages an intelligible "What?" 

The medical examiner looks up from Catra's arm, seeming somewhat impressed. "I'm not sure whether it's even worth trying to explain to you in your current state," she says, retrieving a scalpel from a sterilized tray. "It looks like your medical implants were damaged when we disabled their transmitters. I told them not to do it but," she shrugs, "you know how paranoid Intelligence operatives are. It's not a serious problem, but it could turn into one. No need to worry, we'll replace them with brand new implants, you won't even notice the difference." She turns to another masked figure, an anesthesiologist maybe. "Increase the dose just a little, will you? I don't want her moving around during the procedure." 

The figure nods, and Catra fades back into unawareness. 

_Glimmer eyes Catra's ride off of Etheria dubiously. "I don't feel any better about you leaving in_ that _thing."_

 _Catra rolls her eyes. "It only_ looks _like a piece of shit, Sparkles. You know, espionage? If we need to punch it, she'll do the job."_

_"You're calling it 'she'? Really? You sound like an Eternian."_

_"Hey, if I have to ride something and maybe get killed in the process, I'd like to think of it as a woman."_

_Glimmer scowls at her. "I don't know whether I should be mad at you for being crass or for being morbid."_

_"You're smart," Catra says, poking Glimmer's forehead, "you can find a way to do both."_

Catra's eyes open lazily, taking several seconds to focus on her arm. There's a precise, short slit down the center, her skin peeled back with a pair of metal clamps and a small vacuum tube sucking away excess blood as it leaks from the open wound. The medical examiner is carefully extracting an oblong, metallic capsule from the incision with a pair of forceps. It's odd, Catra thinks, to be watching her own body cut open and not feel any pain. Funny, even. She'd laugh if she didn't feel so tired. With another breath, her eyes close and she slips away. 

_Catra turns to make her way to the shuttle, but is stopped by a pair of arms wrapping around her torso. She turns in Glimmer's embrace, awkwardly returning it._

_"Just–" Glimmer says, sniffling. "Be careful. Keep yourself safe out there." The Grand Admiral of the Alliance Navy looks up at Catra with tears in her eyes._

_Catra gives her what she hopes is a reassuring smile. "You're gonna make Bow jealous, worrying about me like this."_

_Glimmer shoves her away, wiping her face. "Asshole," she laughs._

_"It's what makes me the best," Catra grins._

_"Just… come home, alright?" Glimmer chews on her lip, as if unsure if she wants to voice her thoughts. "I…. I can't do this without you."_

_Catra turns away. "You better have an office ready for me when I get back," she says, "east-facing windows, plush carpet. And a damn good chair."_

_She can hear the tentative smile in her friend's voice. "The best chair I can find."_

_Catra resists the urge to take one last glance over her shoulder. She doesn't want Glimmer to see her like this. "I'll hold you to it, Sparkles."_

_Catra clambers into the shuttle and slumps into her seat. She curses herself for getting emotional as she wipes away tears of her own, reminding herself that this is just another mission, like the hundreds of others she's performed successfully._

_She watches Etheria pull away from her as the shuttle climbs up and out of the atmosphere. Glimmer is just being dramatic, as usual._

_She better have that fucking chair ready when Catra gets home._


	4. Fog of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live! More or less. Sorry about the long delay, I have poorly managed mental illnesses and there was an attempted fascist coup in my country last week.
> 
> We're staring to get into some real horny shit here folks, no actual sex yet but just oceans of thirst for these poor lesbians. Aside from the standing warnings for the fic, this chapter comes with content warning for threats of murder, being horny about being threatened with murder, characters having their mental state and decision making capabilities impaired by heat/pheromones, and a character briefly kinking on the idea of pregnancy. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

It is always cold on the _High_ _Empress Preserver_. It's simple economics, Adora knows: space is cold, and on a ship the size of the _Preserver_ waste heat from the reactors isn't enough to warm the whole vessel, so every degree of heat pumped into the habitable decks represents a vast expenditure of energy and fuel that has to be justified. 

And so, the _Preserver_ is always cold. Not quite enough to be strictly _uncomfortable,_ but over time the thin film of chill has sunk into Adora's bones as a necessary fact of life. The only time she is warm now is when she pilots her interceptor, mere centimeters of synthetic bulkhead separating her from the blazing core of the miniature reactor. 

It is always cold on the _High Empress Preserver_ , so Adora is momentarily struck dumb when she swings open the door to Catra's cell and steps into the wet, enveloping heat of a summer day.

It takes her a long moment of standing still, breathing in the rich, sweet, warmth, before she realizes the temperature in the room is no different from the antechamber outside— it is the blood rushing hot under her skin, the flush expanding from her face to her neck and chest, conquering new regions of her body with every moment, that warms her. She feels as if every last nerve ending in her skin is taking a leisurely soak in warm water. She can feel her muscles relaxing, one by one, as the sensation overtakes her, the fear and tension bleeding out of her posture. 

She hardly registers the heavy sound of the door swinging shut behind her.

A lazy smile steals across Adora's face and she takes an unconscious step further into the swirl of warmth and pleasure, opening her mouth and breathing deeply, letting the scent coat her mouth and tongue and throat. She had anticipated the pheromones; had told herself she could resist them if she knew what was coming, but she had failed to consider how much _stronger,_ how much better they would be pouring off the body of a living, breathing person, mixing with the salt tinge of skin and sweat. It is so much _deeper,_ and she feels herself falling into those depths, plunging further down into instinct and _pleasure,_ so much further than the synthetic pheromones could possibly have taken her. There are swirling currents in the depths here, tugging at her, pulling her inexorably further into the room, drawing her towards their origin, towards something _wonderful—_

A piercing hiss pulls Adora out of her reverie, the ultimatum of a predator who does not intend to become prey. It cuts through the warm haze of peace and pleasure, shocks her to her senses like a set of lacerations across her stomach. She walks back her instinctive advance, stepping away from the high steel shelf where the prisoner is perched, curled up against the wall with a clear view of the room. 

_Catra._

She looks different from either of the photos in Adora's briefing folder. Her hair has grown out past the short military cut in her intake headshot, now slightly longer than Adora's own. The wounds from that photo have healed, leaving behind no visible scars, but despite the strict weight gain regimen she knows the Medical Corps has kept her on, the prisoner looks perilously thin, not that Adora has any real reference point for a healthy Felid physique to compare her to. 

Her face, too, is different. It's not the steady accusation of the woman in the outdoor cafe, catching her voyeur in the act, nor is it the confident contempt of the newly captured prisoner. It is snarling, sneering hatred, the humiliated anger of the powerless that Adora knows too well, and the desperate fear of someone who has seen the shape of what little they have left to lose. 

The sight of that fear is traitorously sharp and painful in Adora's chest, a jagged spur of steel lodged within striking distance of her heart. It's not pity, not exactly, but something inside Adora revolts at the thought of this woman's distress, and she wants nothing more than to pull Catra into her arms and offer up whatever relief, whatever comfort is within her power to provide, all thoughts of the indignity of this assignment forgotten. 

Somehow, she does not think the gesture would be appreciated.

Adora raises her arms in a placating motion, backing away. Her calves bump into a bolted-down steel chair, and she slumps into the seat, unsure what to do with her face and her hands. A career of violence and command has not taught her how to appear non-threatening, and the rich scent of Catra's heat is still swimming through her body, clouding her judgement and filling her with a reckless, nervous energy that has her right knee bouncing up and down. 

Catra waits and watches for a few moments longer, eyes boring a hole in Adora's forehead, before she uncurls and spills gracefully off of the shelf, falling into an alert, fluid posture, claws glinting in the harsh bluish light of the prison cell. 

"I'm here to help," Adora says. "I'm not going to hurt you." 

Catra doesn't dignify her claim with a response. 

"I-I came alone," Adora continues, unsure why, after all the violence she has seen, done, this woman's disapproval makes her stomach clench in terror. 

Catra raises a single, contemptuous eyebrow.

"Right, you uh, you could probably tell. I'm unarmed, too," Adora rushes to add. She feels like a gibbering idiot, running her mouth with no sense of self-control. Her face is burning. 

The prisoner stalks towards Adora, tail swishing from side to side. She makes as wide a circle as the confines of the cell will allow, scrutinizing the Eternian officer from all angles. 

"If that's true," her voice rasps, low and dangerous and much closer behind her than Adora had expected, "then you're an idiot." 

Adora attempts to hold herself perfectly still, calming the nervous motion of her leg to a restrained tremor as the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, her body screaming at her to _turn around,_ that she has her back exposed to a predator, that she has willingly thrown herself into the kind of danger a thousand generations of natural selection has trained her to avoid. 

Adora has no idea how close Catra has come now, how easily her throat might be within reach of those claws. 

She swallows.

"I could slit you open so quickly you'd bleed out on the floor before that bitch of a doctor even had a chance to get here, even if she is just down the hall."

Adora closes her eyes, trying to ignore the twitch of arousal in her uniform trousers. "She wouldn't come at all," Adora whispers, failing to keep her voice steady. "I had them turn the cameras off."

Catra's claws _are_ at her throat, now, even sharper than Adora had feared, or hoped, and she can only hope the strangled noise she makes sounds more like the desperation of terror than _need._

"Aren't you going to beg for your life?" The pressure of those claws is a little sweeter, a little firmer now, a little bit closer to opening up Adora's throat, leaving her absolutely exposed.

"Would there be any point to it?" 

Adora can _hear_ Catra's mouth curling into a cruel smile as it shapes her words, and feels the foolish impulse to turn her head, to catch a glimpse of those fangs, shining. "I might find it amusing." 

Adora's mouth is filling with saliva, and she swallows, feeling the tips of Catra's claws rise and fall with the motion of her throat, carefully maintaining the same pressure just shy of evisceration. "Please?" she manages, sounding unconvincing even to herself. 

The claws fall away from her throat, and Catra snorts derisively, her swaying body coming back into view as she rounds the chair, facing Adora. "You are an absolutely _terrible_ actor," she says. "I'm not going to kill you," Catra explains, raising her arms above her head and stretching out her spine, contorting her figure into an elegant line of action that captures all of Adora's limited focus. "The satisfaction wouldn't be worth the trouble and, all offense intended, I doubt you're a particularly important cog in the mighty Eternian war machine." 

"I'm a pilot," Adora replies, indignity lending a shred of steel to her tone. "I fly an interceptor."

"Shit, if you're expendable enough to put in one of those deathtraps, maybe I can get away with killing you after all."

Adora feels her first flash of genuine annoyance and opens her mouth, ready to leap into an impassioned defense of the Estoc Mark III Interceptor's technical specifications, but Catra doesn't afford her the opportunity. 

"So what the hell are you doing here?" She asks, examining her claws. "I'm guessing they didn't pull you out of the cockpit to come be a scratching post." 

That was probably meant to be another not-so-veiled threat, but the images that flash through Adora's mind at the phrase are of a rather different type of violence than she thinks Catra meant to imply. 

"I…" Adora begins, struggling to remember the speech she had rehearsed in her head earlier. From the moment she stepped through the cell door, none of this has gone like she expected. 

Catra's eyes are staring through her, demanding answers. She swallows.

"I was assigned to provide any aid or, uh, comfort necessary to assist you with your. Uh." Her face is painfully hot, tongue tying itself up in knots. "Heat." She finishes, limply, forcing her eyes down to the floor. 

The character of the silence changes. The warmth in the room seems to fade.

"Get out."

Adora snaps her gaze back up to Catra's and is staggered by the searing fury in those eyes, feeling more afraid for her life than she had with those claws pricking at her throat.

"I understand this is not an ideal circumstance," Adora fumbles, "but we have the legal and ethical obligation to provide you with—"

"I decline the offer of assistance," Catra snaps. "Now _go._ " Adora can see her fur standing on end, claws extended, hear a low rumbling growl. 

"I, uh—" she begins, hopelessly confused, head still thick with a fog of arousal, struggling to reconcile her briefing and her own newly awakened instincts with the reality of the situation. 

The prisoner hisses, stepping forward, and Adora's mind finally snaps into action. She scrambles out her chair and backwards to the cell door, pressing the button to alert the lieutenant outside to open the door. The few seconds it takes feel like an agonizing eternity under the onslaught of Catra's eyes, burning with accusation. 

The lock disengages and Adora reaches for the door handle, humiliated to feel tears welling at the corners of her eyes. 

"I- I'm sorry," she murmurs, probably too low for Catra to even hear it, and then staggers out the door.

* * *

  
  


Catra watches the enemy pilot scamper out of her cell, waits until the door swings shut and she can hear the metallic _thunk_ of the lock engaging before she falls face down onto her cot, hand already slipping between her legs. 

So, they sent a woman. A tall, ripped-to-shit fighter jock with vulnerable blue eyes that make Catra want to do _terrible_ things to her. 

She's in so much fucking trouble.

Catra knows when she's been outsmarted, she hadn't even _considered_ this approach, sending her someone so deferential, so _submissive_ , someone willing to bear her threats of violence and verbal abuse and, if the slight bulge in the pilots trousers had been anything to go by, _getting off on it._ It completely disarmed her, dangling the tiniest shreds of power, of _control_ in front of her. For months she has been told what to eat, when to sleep, when to shit, had her body cut open and _violated_ by surgeons who barely bothered to explain what they were doing. Every decision, every exercise of will, stripped from her. 

And then they send her this woman, wide-eyed and helpless under Catra's gaze and claws, jumping at her command, letting her seize control of the conversation, of the space, shrinking down in that chair and ceding everything. 

She works her fingertips furiously around her clit, groaning. _Fuck,_ it had been like a drug. Better, really, the high of wrapping her claws around that Eternian bitch's throat and feeling her _tremble_ , feeling her accept Catra's power over life and death, was like nothing she'd ever experienced. It's not that Catra's a stranger to power play, far from it, but she's never experienced it like _this_ , in heat, after months of utter humiliation and powerlessness, with a woman who stands for everything she wants to tear out of this galaxy with her bare hands. 

It's fucked up. It's fucked up, she's mixing dominance and hatred and her body doesn't fucking _care,_ because the enemy had looked so fucking good giving in to her, _surrendering_ to her, flushed and hard from being threatened and demeaned. 

And that was the worst part, really. Catra's taste in women is highly eclectic, but when she's in heat her instincts make their own preference extremely clear: she wants to be filled, she wants the soft, yielding texture of a woman's cock pushing into her, _fucking_ her pulsing inside her and filling her up and making her—

She forces the thought down, muscles tensing, trying to will away the wave of arousal that threatens to wash her away. What is it, day four? Five? It's too early for this shit, usually she makes it nearly to the median of the cycle before her body sells her out and starts getting off on the thought of getting pregnant.

She's losing control, faster than she had feared. And that only makes the prospect of seizing it from the enemy, making that fucking pathetic fascist desperate submissive girl give up absolutely _everything_ to her more intoxicating. She feels her orgasm threatening to spill over at the thought, tries to force herself to think of anything else but cruelly digging her claws into the enemy pilot's skin as Catra rides her until she _breaks._

She fails. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Twitter @sleepysaph, 18+ please but if you're reading this filth parade of a fanfic you better be that anyway


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